Dreamer's Pool (13 page)

There came a spell of unusually warm weather, a touch of summer in late autumn. The plants in Grim’s garden patch spread their leaves to drink in the sunlight, the birds sang in the fields, and I took it upon myself, in the absence of folk seeking my help, to wash a number of filthy garments while I had a good chance of getting them dry. Grim carried buckets of water from the well; we heated it one pan at a time, over an outside fire, and I scrubbed until my shoulders ached. Grim helped me wring out the clothing and hang it on the line, then headed off to a job he’d promised to do for Scannal the miller, loading sacks of flour onto a cart and taking them somewhere.

Nobody was around, so I took the opportunity to have a good wash myself, using the remains of the hot water. Once dry and dressed, I tried to restore order to my wet hair. That day when Grim had cut it seemed a long time ago. Now there were strands down to my eyes at the front, and the rest of it was all over the place. Generally I avoided looking anywhere I might catch sight of my own reflection, but I got the odd accidental glimpse in a pool or bowl of water, and the woman I saw was not only aged beyond her years, she was unkempt. I could ask Grim to do the job again, of course. It had felt good, the day he’d hacked off the whole stinking mess of it, as if I was shedding some of the foulness of Mathuin. But winter was coming, and if I had to meet up with the prince of Dalriada sometime, it might be better if I wasn’t near-bald. So I combed my hair and let it dry in the sun. Soon it should be long enough to tie back out of the way.

I was starting to chop vegetables when I heard the scream. A woman’s voice, coming from somewhere in Dreamer’s Wood. ‘Help! Help!’

Curse Conmael and his wretched agreement. And why did Grim have to be away just when I needed him? I threw things into a bag, slung my shawl around my shoulders, put on my boots, stuck a knife in my belt. I ran out the back door and into the wood, because I’d made a promise and I had no choice.

The screaming had died down to be replaced by other sounds: men’s and women’s voices, horses neighing, a shrill yapping. Seemed a whole party of folk had made its way into the wood without my hearing a thing earlier. Had I been so absorbed in my bathing that I had missed them entirely? What if this was an attack, a fight? What if I showed myself only to end up the way I had in Laois, accused of a crime and shut up to rot in a cell?

I hesitated under the trees. The woman was not calling for help now. Did that mean I need not announce my presence? Could I turn my back and slip quietly away home?

Too great a risk. I could not afford to get it wrong. I walked forward. The voices were coming from down by the pool; I could hear folk moving about. And now I was close enough to see them. A number of men dressed in uniform colours of grey and blue, someone’s escort, most likely. A number of horses, saddled and bridled, but tied up as if the party had stopped to rest. And there on the edge of the pool, people clustered around something on the narrow strip of level shore. Someone was sobbing.

I broke into a run, and as they saw me several of the men laid hands on their weapons.

‘I’m a healer,’ I said, not caring if my annoyance showed. ‘I live nearby. What has happened here?’

Several people spoke at once, some of them babbling in distress; I could make nothing of it. The small crowd parted, letting me through to where a young woman lay prone, unmoving. A man was kneeling beside her, trying to revive her. Another woman – not much more than a girl – sat hunched over, a short distance away. Where the others were weeping, wailing, trying to offer explanations, this one was quite silent. Under the cloak that was draped over her shoulders she was wearing only a shift, and it clung damply to her body. Her dark hair hung in a drenched tangle over her narrow shoulders and her face was parchment-pale. It was a warm day; perhaps a swim had seemed a good idea.

‘I’m a healer,’ I said again, squatting down next to the man. ‘My name’s Blackthorn. Is she breathing?’

He shook his head. I put my fingers to the woman’s neck, but even before I touched her, I knew it was too late. Her features had a shadowy look that was all too familiar. This was an empty shell, the spirit flown. She’d been young; perhaps no older than her dark-haired companion.

It had to be said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I can’t do anything for your friend. She’s dead.’

There were gasps of shock from the ladies; one of them looked as if she were about to faint. Under the circumstances, unhelpful. I noticed, then, that one of the men was also soaked; he was stripping off his tunic, while one of his friends stood waiting with dry clothing. The man kneeling beside me had turned pale. An older man brought a blanket, which he laid over the dead girl. He helped the other fellow to his feet.

‘A sad accident,’ the older man said to me. ‘Thank you for coming to help, even though it was too late.’ To the fellow in the wet clothing, he said, ‘Eoin, you did your best. She was already gone.’

I glanced at the shivering girl and decided there was a further requirement for my services, whether I liked it or not. ‘This lady seems cold and distressed,’ I said to the older man, who seemed to be in charge. ‘My house is not far away. It’s warm there. She could rest awhile, get dressed in privacy . . . I could provide a restorative draught.’ I glanced at the body under its blanket. ‘You’ll need to make some arrangements.’

The man opened his mouth to answer, but the girl spoke first. She was a comely thing, small and pale, her face delicately formed and her eyes of an unusual deep blue. That fall of dark hair, when dry, would add to her beauty. ‘How far – how far is it to Winterfalls?’ Her voice was shaky.

‘To the village? Not far.’

‘To Prince Oran’s residence.’

I should have realised where they were heading. There was the fine clothing, the silver on the harness, the substantial escort. ‘Just beyond the village. You could be there very quickly.’

‘Lady Flidais,’ put in the older man, ‘with your approval, I’ll send a couple of men on ahead and let the prince know what’s happened. I’m sure he will want to ride out to meet you. You’ve had a terrible shock. If you go to the healer’s house, you can wait for him in comfort. If you wish, of course.’

Lady Flidais looked up at him. For a moment her lovely face looked quite blank. ‘What . . .’ she began, then her voice faded. She cleared her throat. ‘What about . . . Ciar?’

‘We will stand guard, my lady, until the prince arrives. I’ll have a couple of the men make a stretcher to carry her to Winterfalls.’

‘Oh,’ said Lady Flidais, as if she had barely understood. ‘Yes.’

Under other circumstances I might have slapped her cheek to break the trance, but I refrained. ‘My lady,’ I said, ‘you need warmth and rest. I’m Blackthorn, the local healer.’ I doubted very much that she’d heard my name earlier; she’d looked as if she was taking in very little. ‘My cottage is close by. If your attendants can collect whatever you need, a change of clothing, your personal items, we’ll walk there now.’

The girl seemed unaware that she was only half-dressed, and wet besides. One of her women was fussing with a brooch, pinning the gaping edges of the cloak together before the men-at-arms could get too much of an eyeful. While they organised themselves I spoke again to the older guard. ‘Is the prince expecting you?’ Not that it was any of my business who or what Prince Oran was expecting, but if his visitors were going to get themselves drowned more or less on my doorstep, I wanted to be sure no responsibility would attach itself to me.

The guard managed a smile. ‘I’ll wager you’re the only person in these parts who didn’t know the prince’s new bride was on her way to Winterfalls.’

My stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. I
had
known, vaguely, that Prince Oran was to be wed to some lady from the south. Pressed hard, I might have recalled someone mentioning the name Flidais. I took another look at the lady, who had an attendant on either side supporting her. ‘You mean
that
is the prince’s bride?’ Once this had left my lips I realised it might be taken as offensive. I was surprised that this wilting flower was a princess – or was soon to be one, by marriage – because I had thought a princess would be stronger. More courageous in adversity. Foolish of me. ‘No offence,’ I added quickly. ‘She is very young.’

‘Prince Oran is also young, or so they say.’ The guard was about to add something more when a forlorn cry rang through the wood, making the little hairs on my neck stand up on end.

‘Bramble,’ said one of the women. ‘My lady, you’ve forgotten Bramble.’

The cottage that had seemed so spacious was over-full of folk, and they were chattering like magpies. I didn’t like them here, I didn’t want them here, but since I’d offered my help, I was stuck with them.

The fellow in charge, Domnall, had turned out to be competent. He’d ordered some of the men to make a stretcher, others to keep guard over the spot where the accident had happened, a small party to take a message to the prince. That left me with Flidais, her attendants and six men-at-arms who’d been given the job of watching over us. Until the prince of Dalriada sent someone to convey his future wife to the comforts of Winterfalls, it was up to me to look after her. In the back of my mind was a question whose answer I did not want to consider. Who had called for help, the girl who had ended up dead, or one of the others? By failing to rescue that girl in time, had I already made the seven years of my bond to Conmael into eight?

Not only did I have a house full of people, I also had a dog. If such a pathetic scrap of nothing could be called a dog. I fully understood why Lady Flidais might have wanted to leave it behind. The animal was a bundle of nerves. It cringed in terror when anyone came close, as if it expected a beating. As for the lady, she sat staring at nothing, her body all shivers even now she was indoors and wrapped in a blanket. She and the dog made a sorry pair.

I took charge. Told the guards to go outside. Built up the fire, heated water for washing, found more blankets. Made sure the lady was warm, dry and adequately clad. Sent one of the women – the tall one – out with a jug of mead and some bread for the men-at-arms.

The dog had gone to ground under a bench. One of the women – the grey-haired one – fished it out and brought it to its mistress, thinking, no doubt, that it might comfort her. A trace of a smile touched the lady’s wan features as she reached for her pet, and I thought,
Ah; this is the answer. This will bring her back to herself.
A moment later Flidais shrieked, making me start. The dog had sunk its teeth into her hand, drawing blood. She dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, and it fled back into hiding.

‘You,’ I gestured toward the nearest woman, ‘take that animal outside. If there’s a leash, find it.’

The woman – this one had long dark plaits – extricated the dog from its bolthole; it went rigid in her grasp, limbs splayed. ‘Lady Flidais won’t want to be parted from Bramble,’ she said. ‘Not once she’s back to herself.’

A creature like that seemed to me a waste of time and space. Its only purpose was to be cossetted. Why in the name of the gods had they brought the thing all the way from the south? ‘Just make sure the animal’s not underfoot, then. And keep the leash on,’ I said. ‘Lady Flidais, I’ll make you a restorative brew. Try to breathe slowly, it will help.’

The story came out in bits and pieces as I found the herbs and prepared the mixture. The party had been in high spirits, knowing Winterfalls was so close, for they had made a long journey from the south. When they’d entered the shade of the wood, Lady Flidais had said she would like to bathe, so she would be cool and fresh to greet her future husband, and Ciar, her maidservant, had agreed to go in the water with her. The men had been persuaded to turn their backs while the two young women swam – the rest of the party had had no inclination to strip off and join them. The impression I got, without anyone quite saying it, was that Lady Flidais was not the conventional type of noblewoman.

‘And then,’ said the grey-haired woman, ‘they both got in trouble and went under, and one of the men waded in after them. Lady Flidais bobbed up and managed to swim to shore on her own, but Ciar – by the time he got her back up to the surface, she was . . .’ She glanced at Flidais and fell silent.

If I were choosing a spot for a swim, it wouldn’t be Dreamer’s Pool. But perhaps these travellers from far away had not felt the oddness of the place.

I put a cup of the restorative brew in Flidais’s hands. ‘Drink, my lady,’ I said. ‘This will make you feel better.’ After a moment, I added, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ I felt only the sadness that attends the death of any young, healthy person, but if my words were any sort of comfort to the lady, what matter if they were precisely true or not? Her demeanour was troubling me. Yes, she’d had a terrible fright, but by now I’d have expected her to be coming out of that trance-like state and starting to weep or rail at the gods. Or at least to have something to say. She’d asked a sensible question back at the pool, unless my memory was playing tricks, but since then she hadn’t spoken a word.

But then, if the drowned girl had been her body servant, perhaps this was the loss not of a lackey but of something closer to a friend. I crouched down next to the lady. ‘Your maidservant – had she been with you long?’

She turned her big blue eyes on me. ‘A year.’ Her tone was flat.

‘We departed in haste,’ said the dark-haired attendant. ‘Under the circumstances, our riding skills weighed more than our abilities to dress hair or mend garments. Ciar was a good rider.’

But not such a good swimmer, I thought, if she drowned so quickly. The cry for help could not have been hers, or surely I would have reached the pool to find her still alive. I had brought folk back from near-drowning before, folk who had stopped breathing but still had a pulse. Ciar had been well past that point.

I turned my attention back to Lady Flidais, who was taking reluctant sips of the draught. There was a little more colour in her cheeks now. ‘You left home in a hurry, my lady?’ I asked, not because I wanted to know, but to get her talking again. Cloud Hill, they’d said. Why did that name sound familiar?